


Just a Stupid Dance

by everythingmurky



Series: Time demi-Lord [2]
Category: Broadchurch, Doctor Who
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9812789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingmurky/pseuds/everythingmurky
Summary: One night when Hardy is seventeen, his life is forever altered when he makes the mistake of taking a friend to a dance.(Technically spoilers for Child of Time. And yet, this is mostly the story of why Hardy ended up as a policeman.)





	1. Time for a Few Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I gave in to doing this, as it doesn't really help to fix my current fears about Child of Time, but I have been sick of it bugging me for its time on paper (and really, getting it out of my head would be nice, as it this is a very, very bad night for Hardy.) I just thought maybe it would be better to do it, and since the other story is already complicated and perhaps too long, this should be a side bit.
> 
> A side bit that explains things to a point. Um. Yeah.
> 
> Though... I do kind of think that if someone really wanted to, they could skip the Doctor Who parts and just consider this a story about an event that prompted Hardy to become a cop.

* * *

_“You know you can't change it,” Sarah Jane said, and the Doctor looked at her, barely containing his fury. How could she say that to him? How could she tell him not to change that? He had lost everyone else. His entire family, his_ people. _He'd murdered them, and now he had a child again, an impossible child, and he was supposed to ignore what he'd seen?_

_“I can.”_

_“No, Doctor, you can't,” Sarah Jane said, putting a hand on his arm. “Pain and loss define us as much as happiness and love. I told you that before, and I wasn't wrong then. I'm not wrong now.”_

_“You call yourself his mother? What kind of a mother stands back and says that? You want him to go through that? To suffer like that? What kind of monster did I leave my child with?” The Doctor demanded, once again ready to hurt her._

_“You are thinking too much like a father and not like a Time Lord,” she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. She blinked back tears. “It—I am in part so glad that you were able to accept your child and care for him as deeply as you do. For years, I feared that you would—well, I thought perhaps—”_

_“I'd declare him an aberration and decide that he couldn't possibly be allowed to exist, that I'd make sure I remembered meeting him and also prevented the circumstances that lead to his birth,” the Doctor finished. He shook his head. “There is a part of me that knows I should, especially after the way the timelines tried to reset themselves and how he had to go alter events to keep himself alive. I should have stopped him.”_

_Sarah Jane shook her head. “You didn't want to lose him, and no one can blame you for that. He is your only family. The only other Time Lord in existence, even if he's only half. I have always considered him my miracle.”_

_The Doctor frowned. “You... you never had another child. You couldn't.”_

_“No, but I was gifted with a clever, wonderful son, and I don't regret any of that.”_

_The Doctor shook his head. “How can you say that? He was awkward before then, yes, but after? He withdrew. He hardened. He turned his back on how you raised him, practically abandoned you, and you think I should let that all happen? He was_ never _the same, and you know it.”_

_“And you know that for him, that night is a fixed point,” Sarah Jane said. “For all that time shifts around him and he has been involved in some incredible, impossible things, that night... that horrible night... It has to happen. As much as I wish it hadn't, as much as I would give to take all of that pain from him, I can't. And you can't. It shaped him into the man he is now, and that man... that is the son you love—”_

_“Are you actually implying that I would feel less for my son if he were not so damaged?”_

_“No,” Sarah Jane answered, frustrated. “I am saying that for Alec, this night... It is his Great Fire of Rome or... Oh, blast, I can't remember any other fixed points you mentioned yourself being at, but that night—it is Alec's. It's a point in his life that can't be altered. Or do you really want to make it so that he never has Daisy?”_

_The Doctor frowned. “You really think... he wouldn't... but... no, she should be his fixed point. Not that night. Not those horrible things. It was just a glimpse the first time, but this time—I saw it all. Detail. Too much detail. So much pain...”_

_“As if he is the only one who has pain,” Sarah Jane said. She took his hand in both of hers. “He understands you, and I know that you don't have enough of that in your life, but you can't heal him by changing this. You can't use him to heal yourself, either.”_

_“Is that what you think I'm trying to do?”_

_“No. I just... You can't fix this for him. Believe me, I know how much you want to. You don't know how tempted I was to try and find you—I could have gone to UNIT, could have found a point in our future where I knew you'd be—to beg you to undo this for him. My heart broke for him day after day, and I couldn't help him. He pushed me away, and no, I couldn't stop him. My consolation is seeing him with Daisy. She healed him more than he knows. We are actually closer now than we have been since that night—well, we were before his heart started failing, at least.”_

_The Doctor shook his head. “There has to be something I can do.”_

* * *

“You didn't have to do this for me, you know.”

Hardy grunted. “Didn't do it for you.”

Ailie laughed, and he thought again about how beautiful the sound was. That was wrong, thinking of it like that, but he found most voices annoying. People were annoying. The kids he went to school with were all idiotic prats, and he hated all of them. He'd hated her, too, when they first met, thinking her like the rest of them.

She should have hated him as much as the others did, and that would have been the end of it.

She slid her hand into his, the corsage around her wrist touching his hand in a way that made him grimace. “Yes, you did. There's no way you would have gone there on your own.”

He gave her a look. “Who says I wasn't planning on blowing up the gymnasium or something?”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head and causing some of her hair to come loose. “One failed science experiment does not make you a terrorist. 'Sides, I know that was Douglass and Birk sabotaging your work. They're just lucky you figured out what was wrong in time to stop it taking the whole bloody school.”

Hardy frowned, and she giggled, red curls bouncing as she did.

“Lord, your face,” she said. “You make that _every_ time I swear. Oops. Bad pun. Are you, Alec Hardy, anarchist and all around grump, a secret prude?”

He shook his head as she smiled at him. He didn't care about language, not really, though his mother was less than pleased that he'd picked up the equivalent of every curse word in multiple languages by the time he was ten. He just found it jarring when Ailie did it because most of the time her voice was gentle, almost... soothing.

He'd asked his mother if she thought Ailie was an alien, and she'd laughed at him, muttering something about how he was growing up too fast. He'd snorted and left her laughing in the kitchen, taking the dog out to the shed for company and losing himself in tinkering for hours.

“Alec?” Ailie asked, no longer smiling. “Is something wrong? I mean, besides the dance you agreed to go to for my sake. For the hundredth time, you don't have to go.”

“It's just a stupid dance,” he said, as he had several times over the last few days as his mother smiled smugly at him behind mugs and hummed to herself. She seemed to think this thing with Ailie was something more than it was. He was almost certain that she believed he was in love with her.

He wasn't. Love was...

Well, it was rubbish. He didn't believe in it, and if his parents' marriage was any indication of “love,” he didn't want it. Ailie deserved better. So did his mother. Stuart Hardy could rot in hell for all he cared.

“I see it as a right of passage,” Ailie said, and he grimaced, disliking the term. “It's this thing that everyone talks about having done, and some day when I'm older, I'll have this story to tell to relate to other people.”

“That's why you want to go?”

She hit him. “Wanker. You know I want to go because... Well...”

He waited, refusing to rub his arm where her fist had connected. “Because...?”

“Because no one has ever looked at me like I was anything—not even you—but tonight I can dress up and pretend I'm something,” she said, snorting and shaking her head. “Listen to me. I sound like a bloody moron.”

He stopped, getting in front of her. “How can you say I never saw you as anything? The hell do you take me for?”

Ailie shook her head. “It's not—it's just... You always see my mind. You like me because I'm not as stupid as everyone else—though everyone's an idiot compared to you—and you don't see me as a girl or even... a person half the time. It's fine. I know it's just how you are—”

“What are you on about?”

She shrugged. “You're different. You don't see the world the same way. It's part that you're smart, so very brilliant, but it's more than that. Like, I look in your eyes sometimes and you are so much older than the rest of us. You don't look like it on the outside, tall and skinny and sometimes I think I could push you over with a finger, and Douglass, well, he's already going bald, so compared to him you look like a child, and if you get excited, like that one project we did—”

“Shut it,” he said, not sure why her words bothered him or what to do about it. “Just—shut it.”

She stepped up and kissed his cheek. Then she tried to force a smile as she backed away. “I shouldn't have asked. I knew we'd never make it there, but I thought just once...”

“Oh, please,” Hardy muttered. “You think just because you wittered a bit I want you to leave? I'd have sent you packing weeks ago if that were true.”

She grinned, taking his hand. “Ha. Knew you liked me.”

He rolled his eyes and she started laughing again, leaning against him as they walked.

* * *

When Hardy thought about it, he didn't remember why he'd agreed to this in the first place. Not that he fully remembered _when_ he'd agreed to it, either. Ailie had a habit of talking on and on, and if he was in the middle of something, he tended to tune out her wittering and focus on what he was doing.

He'd agreed to plenty of stupid things when he did that, and yet for some reason, he always upheld whatever foolish promise he'd made her. He didn't know what that was, but his mother would always smile and remind him he was an honorable man when he grumbled about it.

Honor. Right. He thought he could do without it right about now.

Or do with more of the punch because it wasn't hard to tell it was spiked. The stuff burned going down, and Ailie had already dumped her cup out before joining her other friends on the dance floor. He looked over at her, watching her skirt sway with the music and thinking she was the only one with any kind of taste in the room, even if her dress was probably the wrong color for her. It was simple and flattering. The rest of these dresses and worse, the suits, were horrid, eye sores that made him want to run from the room, not that the decorations helped at all.

He went back for another glass of punch, about the only one to do so. Douglass and Birk had, but the two of them were already half-pissed, laughing too loud at the table and making their girlfriends cringe, clearly wishing they'd stayed home.

“Alec Hardy drinks moonshine,” Ailie said, coming up to him with a smile on her face. “Never thought I'd see the day you willingly went back for something that pink, but you did.”

He frowned. “You're wearing pink.”

“The fabric was cheaper than the blue,” she said, defensive and revealing too much all at the same time. “I wanted the blue, but I couldn't have bought enough of it to make the dress if I did.”

“Could have asked. I'd have given you it.”

“I'm not a bloody charity,” she said, and he looked at her, snorting. She sighed. “It's just... No, I'm not repeating that. Come on. You did agree to one dance.”

“No, I bloody did not.”

“Yes, you did, and you shouldn't let me ask you things when you're distracted,” she said, grinning at him as she took his hand, tugging him toward the dance floor. He spilled his drink, and she tossed the empty cup away, letting it roll across the floor.

“Look at you. Little vandal you are.”

She shrugged. “Copper's daughter. You're either a saint or the worst of sinners.”

She was neither, and he knew that better than anyone. She stopped them on the edge of the crowd and looked up at him, her eyes holding both a question and hope. He sighed, knowing this was a bad idea. He didn't dance. His mother had tried to teach him, but that ended in a mess of tangled limbs and a dog that had gotten underfoot.

“If we do this, you have to tell me what you refused to say earlier.”

She frowned. “You already agreed to a dance. You don't get to renegotiate.”

“You took advantage of my distraction which should nullify any promises—”

“Fine, fine,” Ailie said, putting his hand right on her hip, and he figured now he got to worry about sweaty palms. That, and he hated this song. How was this even music? It pretended it was soppy, but really it was just stupid. And the bridge was all wrong. “Come on, shuffle your feet a bit.”

“Talk.”

She looked down at her feet. “You know all the rumors, don't you? Do I really have to repeat it?”

“What rumor?”

“The one that says I only spend time with you because I'm figuring on marrying rich,” she said, her face as red as her hair. He stopped trying to dance and lifted up her chin, seeing the start of tears in her eyes. “It's not true. I didn't even—”

“What bloody idiot said that?” Hardy asked, frowning. He knew that his father had held onto some land that had been in the family for generations, but that was more an accident of law than due to any real money or acuity on his father's part. They didn't have all that much, as Hardy was always reminded when he broke something or took it apart to try and improve it.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “I think we should just go now.”

Angry and without an outlet for it, not a proper one, since he figured it was probably Douglass or Birk but they weren't the only ones who disliked him—Hardy didn't actually know anyone here who liked him besides Ailie, not unless he counted his mother or the dog. That was it. Those three.

He shook his head. “No. We came for a bloody dance, we're doing the damned dance.”

The music had changed, and this song was less soppy and a bit faster, but somehow they managed to get through it, not saying a word the entire time.

* * *

Hardy took his fourth cup of punch and went to the wall, leaning against it and glowering at the crowd. Ailie had excused herself to the restroom, and he hadn't seen her for at least twenty minutes. He didn't expect her back any sooner, though. Ailie wasn't the sort to let anyone see her cry, and she'd been close even before he forced her to repeat the damned gossip.

What was it with this town and twisting everything about? His friendship with Ailie was special, since she was about the only person he knew who tolerated him. Everyone else thought he was a bastard or worse, not that he cared what they thought of him.

He cared about her. He didn't like them hurting her because of him. That wasn't right. They could hate him all they liked, but Ailie hadn't done anything wrong.

“Should have known you couldn't dance,” Ailie said, coming up to him with her shoes in her hands. “I mean, I've seen you play sports. I don't think there is one you aren't rubbish at.”

Hardy glanced at her feet. She probably needed ice for them, and he should have let one of their parents drive them since she'd hate the walking back. Not that he didn't think they should have turned back long before they got here. He didn't know why he hadn't. He didn't do this. He hated people, and why would he want to socialize? Even Ailie didn't socialize.

This was torture. Plain and simple.

“So you only have yourself to blame,” he told her. Then he felt a bit guilty and added, “though if I ruined your shoes—”

“No, but I'm sorry I make you come. You don't need to be more miserable than you already are.”

“No one made me come.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Tell yourself that if that's what you need to believe. Now, I've had my spiked punch, I've gotten my feet bruised, and I think that's as good as the night's going to get. So... you taking me home or what?”

“And let them win?”

She laughed. “They haven't won anything, but we both would rather be somewhere else. Come on. Walk me home. Da will be all sorts of impressed you brought me home early.”

Hardy snorted. “He won't even be home. He's on duty. He's always on duty.”

She nodded, taking his hand. “My da has the most important job in the universe, and don't you think for one second I'm not proud of him.”

“I know you are. You annoy me with it daily,” Hardy said. “Come on, then. It's a long walk home.”

* * *

“What you think you'll do after school?”

“Seriously? Why are we discussing that?” Hardy countered, frowning as he looked over at Ailie. She should know better than that. That was what the adults did, asked about plans and rubbish like that, and he wasn't one to make plans.

Well, not beyond getting as far away from his father as he bloody could.

“It's just... I don't see you staying here,” Ailie admitted. “But me? I'm gonna die here.”

He stopped, turning to face her. “Why would you say that? You can go anywhere, same as I can.”

She gave him a smile, putting her hand on his arm. “Easy now. I'm just... I was thinking about family and the like, and I know I won't leave Da on his own, not when he's hopeless without me. Probably be here forever.”

“That what you want?” Hardy asked, watching her. “You don't have to stay for anyone, not even your father.”

“You would say that. You hate yours.”

Hardy shrugged. “It's not about me, and he's an arse. 'Course I hate him. Even still, I'm not sticking around for my mother's sake, and she's... well, she's...”

“You know, you're allowed to love your mother,” Ailie teased, grinning. “No need to be ashamed of it, Alec.”

He grimaced. He still hated that name. “I'm not.”

“Sure you aren't,” she said, leaning into him as she put an accusing finger on his chest. “You are all sorts of contradictions. You care so deeply about the people who actually matter to you, but you'd never admit that. All anyone sees of you is this grumpy wanker who hates the fact that he's a bit pretty and so he scowls all the time, thinking we'll forget it. Only some of us can't.”

“Ailie,” he said, disappointed. “You're drunk.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “You had more of that punch than I did.”

“Yeah, but it's hitting you a hell of a lot harder,” Hardy told her, trying to figure out when she'd gotten a second glass. “Come on, let's get you home.”

“Such a gentleman,” she said, leaning against him. “I feel kind of sick...”

He rolled his eyes, but the sound of a car driving past distracted him. He looked over, seeing it slow down as it passed. The man driving had his eyes on them the entire time, and Hardy frowned as the van slowed down. He supposed they could do with the help, since she was sure to puke on him, but he didn't ask.

The van sped up and soon even its brake lights disappeared from sight.

Hardy turned back to Ailie. “Can you still walk?”

“Ooh, would you carry me?”

He rolled his eyes, though he would have if she'd asked. Instead, she started walking on her own, stumbling a bit as she went.

“Should have gotten the plate.”

“What?”

She gestured to the road. “That van... Speeding. Should report them.”

“Look at you,” Hardy said, “brilliant copper in the making, Ailie McKinney."

She laughed. “Oh, shut it, you.”

He took her hand instead, and they started walking again in silence. She hummed off and on, but she seemed to lose the tune fast each time. He saw her shiver and stopped again, pulling off his jacket. He helped her into it, listening to her giggle the entire time, and she hugged him afterward, shaking with drunken laughter.

“I'm going to have to carry you, aren't I?”

She looked up at him and gave him a wide eyed nod. “Aye.”

He shook his head at her, again wishing he'd never agreed to any of this. He heard a car passing again, and he thought about asking for a ride this time, but when he turned to flag them down, he saw the same van from a few minutes ago.

“Need a bit of help, mate?”

“We're fine,” Hardy said, even if Ailie clearly wasn't. He pushed her back behind him as the doors to the van opened. Two men came out of the back, and he leaned down to her ear as the passenger started to climb out. “Run.”

She tried. Her legs seemed to tangle on themselves, and she tripped. He bent to help her up only to be yanked away by the two from the back, both of them holding him still. The man who'd been in the passenger seat lifted her up, and she screamed, legs flailing as she struggled in his arms.

“Let me go,” she said, elbowing him in the chest. He swore, throwing her toward the driver. She fell, hitting the pavement and he dragged her up to her feet by her hair.

“Feisty,” he said, smiling in a way that made Hardy sick. She spit at him, and he hit her. Hardy tried to get to her and the passenger punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air as the driver picked Ailie up again.

“Alec!” Ailie twisted in his hold as he carried her toward the van. “Alec!”

“Let her go,” Hardy said, and they laughed at him, since what the hell could he do? He couldn't even get one arm free, but he would. He wouldn't let them hurt her. Ailie was one of few people he actually gave a damn about. “Last warning.”

“Oh, you're feisty, too,” the passenger said, laughing. “Perfect match, yeah?”

London. That accent was a London one. What the hell was it doing here? This wasn't happening. It couldn't—except Ailie was screaming his name again, and it was. He swallowed, trying to think. Leverage. If he had that, he could somehow twist free, maybe.

Something hit his head, hard, and he managed half a swear before everything was black.


	2. Time to Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardy wakes up, and his mother starts to realize something is very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... this part is... well... it is pretty terrible. I hopefully mean that in a plot sense, but I suppose my writing could be just as horrible.

* * *

He should be dead.

He knew that, even before he was awake enough to have any other thoughts. He knew he should be dead. He knew it even with his head throbbing and his mind trying to make sense of where he was without being able to force his eyes open. He knew the sounds of home, of school, and he knew he wasn't there.

Someone screamed, and he jerked, stopped when his hands reached the limits of the rope. He looked up above his head, staring at the bonds tying him to the support beam. He grimaced, now aware of pain in lots of other parts of his body, not just his head.

He must have hundreds of bruises all over, and his arms ached from the way they'd been bound.

“Oh, look at this,” the one with the London accent said, coming over to get in his face. He yanked on Hardy's hair, pulling his head back and making him pull against the ropes and back into the pillar in a futile attempt to get away. “Mr. Feisty's awake now.”

“That's good, then,” another one said, missing two teeth and the accent of his friend. He grinned wide, lifting up a beer bottle. “Just in time for the show.”

Hardy swallowed, not wanting to know what they'd consider a show. Not when he could almost guarantee that Ailie was in the middle of it. She'd been the one to scream. He'd heard her. He knew he had. “Let her go.”

“Now why would we do that?” the third man asked, and he was downright smarmy, thinking he was charming with that smile and the polished tones. Educated past the others, he probably considered them all his lackeys. He crossed over and knelt in front of Hardy's face, picking up his chin and forcing him to look at him. “I'm waiting. Give me a good reason. I dare you.”

“Her father is a policeman.”

“Oh, please,” the other man said, his dark eyes lightened with insane glee. “If I were scared of police, you think I'd be here now? Honestly. You couldn't think of a better reason than that? I'm disappointed.”

The excuse was lousy, and Hardy knew it, especially since Ailie's father was more likely to break under this than she was, but he'd had to try, since sometimes just the mention of police was a deterrent. Not with this one. He thought maybe the last man, who hadn't said anything yet, might have been a bit concerned, but he was too much of a bloody sheep. He wasn't going to do a thing unless the leader told him to, and the leader...

Hardy figured him for a sociopath.

That was always an abstract before, something he read about in a book, something he never thought he'd actually see, especially not out here where Stuart Hardy tried to shut his family away from the rest of the world, where his mother went half insane wanting to be out investigating something real instead of the piddly nonsense this town had to report, where nothing at all happened so a nice but hapless man like Ailie's father made constable and always got stuck with the night shift.

He'd seen things before that he shouldn't have.

This was the first time he'd actually been sure he was seeing a monster.

Ailie whimpered, and Hardy wasn't the only one to look over at her. Handmade dress turned into scraps of blooded rags, she had tried to push herself up only to falter, the wound on the side of her head dripping onto the floor. She saw that they'd heard her and panicked, trying to back away.

The Londoner was on her in an instant, shoving her back down with a knife to her throat.

“Don't,” Hardy said. He didn't know what he was doing, but the words spilled out of his mouth anyway. “Do what you want to me, just leave her alone.”

“Oh, you just wait your turn.”

* * *

Sarah Jane reached for her tea cup, reading over the last line she'd just finished typing. Her new book was dragging on a bit, and she wasn't sure why. She needed to have Alec read it over for her. He always seemed to be able to pinpoint the flaws that she couldn't see, and he never spared her feelings when he did.

Her worst critic and best editor all in one, her boy was, and she loved him for it, even if she wished sometimes he was a bit less rude.

For now, though, she had to settle for tea, and she was out of it, her cup completely dry.

She pushed back her desk chair, rubbing at her back absently. She was getting too old to be huddled over a chair like that, but she had yet to find a position sitting in front of a screen that wasn't uncomfortable. She knew that she could work other ways, and sometimes she did miss working more abroad, but she would be back to that soon enough, now that Alec was near finished with school.

He'd been pushing her to do it since he was probably twelve, but if she had, there would be no buffer between him and his father, and the last thing she wanted was for that tension between them to erupt into something there was no going back from.

She went into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and frowning at the clock. That couldn't be right. She knew she had a tendency to get lost in her work, but even still, Alec should have been back by now. Oh, there was no doubt in her mind that Alec had feelings for Ailie, but Sarah Jane knew her son well enough to know that he was firmly in denial about them. She still didn't know how Ailie had talked him into the dance in the first place, but he should have been back by now, grumbling about the idiocy of his peers and the archaic, juvenile nature of the ritual he'd taken part in.

She took out a cup and set it on the counter. Perhaps her son was enjoying himself more than any of them would have thought. He could have surprised himself and the rest of them. He did like Ailie's company, after all, and that might have made the rest of it seem tolerable.

And if things had gone the course of normal teenage behavior, she supposed she wasn't that upset about it. Really, it was past time, and Ailie was a nice girl. Sarah Jane thought she was good for Alec, since she put up with his more anti-social tendencies and brought out some genuine smiles. She knew his personality well and was still his friend, which was more than most managed.

She turned off the burner, taking the kettle and pouring water into the cup. Fine. She'd give them a bit longer, and then she would call over to Ailie's house and then the school.

She dunked the tea bag in the water, trying to believe she was just being paranoid. Too many years as an investigative reporter, and now she saw danger in all the shadows, even in a sleepy town like this. Or maybe it was the book getting to her.

She looked down at the dog, not sure when he'd come in, but she wasn't sure she was comforted by his presence.

“He's fine, isn't he?”

The dog did not answer.

* * *

Ailie had stopped screaming.

Hardy knew what it meant, but he didn't want to believe it. He couldn't. That was not possible. He refused to accept it as real. This was not happening. She was fine.

No, no one was fine in this place, with those men, but she would be. He'd get them out of this somehow. He had to. 

Ailie was one of those people that was just genuinely _nice,_ kind without reason, caring about everyone, even the jerks who didn't deserve it—and him. She cared about him, and she shouldn't, but she had. That made her rare and special. He should have been able to protect her.

He hadn't.

She was dead.

No, maybe she was just unconscious. He couldn't see her, not with the men blocking his view, so maybe she'd just been given the mercy of passing out.

She was fine.

“Well, that was disappointing. I thought she had another hour in her, at least,” the leader said, turning back toward Hardy. He swallowed, trying to tell himself that the bastard was lying, but he knew he didn't really believe it. “I hope you're less of a disappointment.”

“What?”

The leader reached over, and Hardy backed into the pole again, but the other man took his knife, cutting the ropes binding him to the beam. He watched, knowing that his one chance at escape would come when his hands were free. He looked around, trying to find the exit, but he couldn't see one. No doors. No stairs.

He didn't know where to run.

Two of the other men grabbed hold of him, each taking an arm, and as soon as the last rope fell apart, they yanked him away from the pole, dragging him across the room. They dumped him on the floor, a few feet from Ailie, but she was on her side, back to him, and he couldn't see if she was breathing, not from here.

He tried to get up and get to her, but they shoved him back down.

“Now I've heard you yell, and you even pleaded a little—such a gentleman, still trying to convince me to free her—but I haven't heard you scream,” the leader said, leaning over him. “She screamed so well.”

“I'll kill you,” Hardy ground out, and the men all laughed. None of them believed him. He probably looked as pathetic as he felt, trapped in their hold while the sociopath threatened him. There he was, spouting off words he knew were just bravado. He wasn't getting free. He wasn't going to be able to fight them. Not even the weak one that hid in the corner most of the time.

Not that Hardy forgave him. He hated that one just as much as the others. He might not talk, but that hadn't stopped him from hurting Ailie. He'd done just as terrible things to her as the others did.

“You amuse me,” the leader said, reaching over to pat Hardy on the cheek. “You act so brave. You're not scared for yourself. I find that hard to believe. You know you should be terrified. You know what's ahead of you. You've seen it.”

Hardy swallowed. He had only seen pieces of it, but he'd heard more than enough. She'd been in agony until the screaming stopped.

“You think... you're the only bully... I've ever known?”

“You think I'm just a bully?” the other man laughed. “How quaint. I love that small town mentality. Even after you saw me butcher your girlfriend, you still think of me as a mere bully. You know you're not the first couple I've killed? I wonder if that number would actually impress you.”

“No.”

“Pity, but then the night is young, and I am hoping you'll last more than a few hours.” He put the knife to Hardy's shirt and cut it open, pushing it to the side and exposing his chest. “Especially as I have this perfect blank canvas right in front of me.”

Hardy watched as the knife blade touched his skin, flinching despite his attempt to keep himself still. He heard laughter, hating himself for the weakness as much as he hated all of them for enjoying this. He wanted to hurt them, all of them, make them suffer as they had Ailie.

“Now,” the leader said, grinning. “Let's hear that scream.”

* * *

She wasn't paranoid.

Something was wrong.

Sarah Jane knew it, had known it since she first looked at the clock, and she'd wasted too long trying to convince herself otherwise. She knew her son. She knew he hated school events. She knew where he'd be if he had any choice in the matter, and the fact that he wasn't here meant something had gone wrong.

She couldn't make herself believe that he and Ailie had snuck off to the girl's house. Her father wouldn't have been there, and it would have been the perfect place for two teenagers to be, but only if they were other people. Or maybe they would have gone there to be alone, but they were both responsible enough to answer the phone if someone called. Even if they were up to things that technically they shouldn't be, they would have answered the phone. Any kid trying to get away with that sort of thing would have answered to try and cover it up, but they hadn't.

No, it was wrong, all wrong.

She had tried the McKinney house—three times—and then she'd phoned the school. That took half a dozen tries before someone answered, but that answer was the one she'd expected and feared. Alec and Ailie had left the dance hours ago. She'd called Stuart, and he said she was being ridiculous. Alec would be home whenever he damn well pleased, as usual, and her worrying only wasted her time. 

Sarah Jane called Wallace McKinney next, reaching him at his desk. “Have you heard from Ailie at all tonight?”

“No, she went to that dance with your son.”

“They're not back yet.”

“Dance lasts til ten. It's only nine-thirty,” Wallace said, and Sarah Jane wanted to smack him over the phone. For one, it was five to ten, and his clock was wrong. For another, he was being thick. “Why would you expect them back now?”

“Wallace, you know my son better than that,” Sarah Jane snapped, frustrated. Why was she the only one who saw this as a problem?

Wallace grunted. Like everyone else in town, he didn't care much for Alec. Her son had never been very respectful to him—as an authority figure, Alec saw him as a joke, and he wasn't the only one. Wallace was a sweet man, devoted to his daughter, and not at all suited to being a policeman, even if he was as loyal to the job as he was to Ailie.

“I called the school. They left hours ago, and they're not here. No one's answering at your house,” Sarah Jane told him. “I just wanted to know if you'd heard anything. I'm going by your house now, and then I'm going to drive toward the school.”

“If your son put his hands on my daughter—”

Sarah Jane hung up on him, grabbing her car keys and purse and hurrying out the door. She had to find them before it was too late.

* * *

Hardy found himself not dead, again, though he couldn't explain why he wasn't. He didn't think there was a part of him that wasn't bleeding or broken. His head hadn't stopped throbbing, and he had managed to anger his captors by throwing up in the middle of having his fingers snapped one by one.

No, not all his fingers. He could still feel some of the ones on his right hand, so his tormentors must have gotten distracted in the middle of his project. Or maybe he'd gotten bored. Hardy wasn't sure. He didn't remember much after getting hit again for letting the concussion win.

Ailie. He could see her from here, back still to him, but he didn't care. They'd left him, and they must have figured he was dead or close enough that he couldn't get anywhere, since he was alone with her. Maybe it was over. Could they have been so sure he was dead that they had left his body behind like they'd left hers?

He used his good hand to try and move, dragging himself over to Ailie one painful tug at a time. His legs didn't seem to be responding, but then, he didn't think the angle of his ankle was right, either. Not to mention that it was throbbing as bad as his head.

He stopped, close enough to where he should have been able to hear Ailie's breathing, and he knew as soon as he finished that thought—he didn't.

No.

He'd already told himself that she was gone, but a part of him had refused to believe it, holding onto hope like a fool, but there was nothing left to hope for, was there?

He put his fingers on her side, seeing them shake before making contact.

Her skin was already cool, and while this basement was cold, she shouldn't feel half-frozen. He tugged on her, and she fell back, arm flopping free. He choked.

She was dead. No denying it now. No hoping for anything else, no trying to believe she was just passed out. He couldn't lie to himself. She was cold. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, and her mouth hung in a half-finished scream. She'd died in pain, and he hadn't been able to stop it.

He hadn't done anything to help her. Hadn't helped anyone. She was dead, and he should be.

He had to get out of here, but he couldn't make himself move. His body was on fire in each small cut and open wound, aching everywhere else that was bruised and broken, but that wasn't why he was trapped here. He couldn't leave her, couldn't look away.

This was his fault. He knew it was. If he'd been less of an idiot, if he hadn't agreed to that stupid dance, then none of this would have happened. She'd be angry, probably wouldn't have forgiven him for another month, but she'd be alive.

He should have kept her alive. He should have done _something._ He hadn't done a damned thing, and now she was gone. His only friend, dead, and all he could do was sit here, staring at her. He was bloody pathetic.

“Oh, I think we managed to break you now, didn't we? Guess I should have tried this sooner,” the leader said, coming up behind Hardy. “You just needed to see her up close and personal, didn't you? You like the way she looks? I'm rather proud of that one myself.”

Hardy shuddered.

“And now that you're awake, I think it's time for another round, don't you?”


	3. Time for Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While his mother looks for him, Hardy tries to get free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I knew that this would be difficult, but I hadn't actually known how bad it would be to write. I knew two major things that were horrible enough in the outline, but putting detail to them... well, that just makes them worse, and I don't know why I thought it would be okay to write this, but at least now it's a step closer to done.

* * *

Hardy knew nothing but pain. No, a part of him was aware it was colder now, and the room seemed darker, but then he couldn't sure if that was his vision or something else. His ankle throbbed, and he thought it was three times its size, but he couldn't actually see it, so he couldn't know for sure. He knew he was still bleeding, all the cuts and scrapes spilling out across the floor. Some weren't that bad, but others he thought would kill him. 

He wasn't sure why they hadn't yet. He should be dead. He kept saying that, but that didn't make it any less true. He knew that the leader _enjoyed_ what he was doing, one of those men that got pleasure from causing other people pain, but that wasn't enough of an explanation.

Hardy couldn't imagine hurting him had that much appeal. He couldn't fight back, if that was what the man wanted. He knew the man kept on about screams, but if that was all he wanted, Hardy had given him them. He hadn't wanted to, but the pain was too much. He wasn't that strong.

He wasn't strong enough to move.

Most of them were gone, again, though he thought one was close. He could hear breathing that wasn't his own, and that wasn't Ailie's. He knew that. He still wanted her to be alive, but he knew she wasn't. She was gone.

He turned, looking at the breather across the room. Hardy thought he knew which one it was. Toothy. Hardy should call him Toothless, but that felt wrong, and besides, it was only two missing. Toothy's real problem was his drinking. He reeked of it, mostly too drunk to do what he was supposed to, which would have been a relief if the bastard hadn't had a bloody knife to mess about with.

The knife. If Toothy was asleep, then maybe the knife he'd been playing with was by him.

What the hell did Hardy care? He was just lying here, waiting to die.

His eyes went to Ailie, regaining a sense of purpose. She had died in pain, and he'd wanted them all to feel it, to pay them all back for everything she'd suffered. He didn't care about what they did to him. He didn't. Even with everything hurting, none of that mattered. He was just a grumpy bastard no one liked except his mother.

That was never more true than now, since they'd killed Ailie.

Hardy glared at Toothy. If that knife was there, he should use it, kill that bastard while he slept. He didn't deserve a fighting chance. Not like Ailie had been given that, not even like Hardy had. Four against one, two holding him down while another carved marks into his body or broke his bones.

No, he'd kill them. He'd already said it once, and he hadn't changed his mind. Hardy bit his lip, knowing he needed to keep himself quiet. If he woke Toothy, he would die, and while a part of him wanted it, he didn't want to go until they were all gone. He managed to contain the involuntary scream as he rolled over, getting his good side—and that wasn't saying much—so that he could face Toothy and pull himself across the room.

Dragging himself over to the drunk, he almost collapsed again, his wounds too much. He swore his wheezing would wake Toothy, but the man must have been so drunk that nothing short of an earthquake would rouse him.

Hardy grabbed the knife from the floor, closing his hand around it. He swallowed, looking at Toothy. He had said he'd kill him, and he had meant to, right up until he had hold of the knife. He shook his head. He couldn't do it.

They were the monsters. The ones who feasted on pain. Not him.

He had been angry, but even anger wasn't enough to make him like them. He couldn't kill them just because they were there, even if they had taken away his only friend. He couldn't force himself to do it, much as he hated them and thought they deserved it.

He looked around again. This place had to have an exit, and if he got out, he could still make sure that Ailie's killers paid. It wasn't like he thought that her father would ever find them, no. Wallace McKinney was hopeless most of the time, but without Ailie—no. He'd fold, give up, and die. Hardy refused to do that. He was stronger than McKinney, at least.

He grimaced, deciding on the darker part of the room. For some reason, Hardy figured the stairs were there. He couldn't be sure, and his judgment was flawed. He just had to do something, and he could always kill himself trying to cross the room again if he was wrong about this.

“Oi,” the Londoner said. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Hell.”

His captor laughed, grinning as he did. “You are funny. I wouldn't mind keeping you around a bit longer, but I don't think you'd survive another turn with the boss.”

“That isn't really what you call him.”

The other man laughed again. “Doesn't matter what we call him, does it? You won't live to tell anyone about any of us. I'm surprised you lasted this long, actually. The girlfriend really was disappointing.”

“Not... girlfriend.”

“Oh? Well, I suppose that makes sense,” the man said, still smiling in that smug, obnoxious way he'd been before as he leaned over Hardy. “After all, she was a—”

His words cut off as he looked down at his stomach, where the knife was. Hardy didn't remember doing it, but there it was, in his hand and in that guy's gut.

“You little shit,” he said, and Hardy pulled the knife out before quickly plunging it back in. The Londoner fell back, giving a gurgle as he did.

Hardy stared at him, not sure he could believe what he'd just done.

* * *

The McKinney house was empty. Dark and locked up, with no sign of anyone around. Sarah Jane peered into the window, shaking her head at herself. She was being stupid. She had known before she came that Alec and Ailie weren't here.

She knew that she could use the spare key—Ailie kept one in a plant on the window sill for her father, who was rather hopeless and often locking himself out. He was also misguided enough to believe that no one would break into a policeman's home when even Alec had been invited to participate in that particular rite of passage as a younger boy.

Sarah Jane took the key from the pot and opened the door, stepping inside. She turned on the light, walking through the house. She knew that she could be wrong, and she wanted to be, because her mind kept going to the worst possible scenarios, including that her son was lying dead somewhere.

She knew Alec would never hurt Ailie, so she didn't think that was what happened, but Alec didn't have a car. He and Ailie would have walked, and if they were walking, then it was still possible that someone could have hit them. They could be hurt on the side of the road somewhere.

She should have driven the route from the school, but the house was closer, and if she didn't find them on the road, she would need to be sure that this house was empty.

And it was. No one was here.

She turned, hurrying back toward the door. Locking it behind her, she put the key back where she'd found it and ran the rest of the way to her car.

She didn't want to waste any more time. She had to find her son.

* * *

Hardy dragged himself away from the Londoner, unwilling to look at him again. He didn't want to see it. He couldn't face him any more than he could face Ailie. He didn't want to see those sightless eyes again. Ailie's eyes were supposed to have light and laughter in them—she was almost always happy, so lighthearted—and now they had nothing. They were empty.

He refused to think about that. He should keep looking for the stairs. If he found a way out, he could still make sure that the other men paid for Ailie's death. He knew what they'd done. He'd seen it. He'd... endured it.

Then again, he didn't know where he was or if anyone would ever find their bodies.

He didn't remember anything between being hit on the way to Ailie's house and waking up the first time. None of the drive. He couldn't say how far they'd gone or where this basement might be. He knew there were some abandoned places further out of town, but those were more ancient, less likely to have a finished basement like this one.

He couldn't worry about where he was. Not until he found a way out of where he was, and that meant stairs. It would also be a lot faster if he could find a way to get onto his feet. Not that he wanted to put weight on his ankle, but he should try, at least once, because he wasn't going to get away if he couldn't move faster.

He had to move. Now. Lingering by the body would only get him dead.

He couldn't let that happen until he knew that Ailie would be found. He wasn't letting her body rot down here, forgotten. She deserved better.

He hit a wall in the dark, and he grunted, wincing. He leaned against it for a second, feeling lightheaded and needing to rest. His side felt wet again, and he supposed moving had made that cut start bleeding again.

He tried to move, but he hadn't been prepared for the pain, and he cried out, falling back against the wall, unable to do anything until the spasms in stopped. What had he done? He hadn't flared up any of the wounds he knew were bad, not his hand or his ankle or his head, but he was still in agony.

“Well, now. I suppose he was right to call you feisty,” the leader said, and Hardy would have sworn when he heard that voice except all he could do was hiss between his teeth. “You do realize that now that you've killed one of my men, I'll have to punish you.”

Hardy met his eyes with a glare he knew wasn't the least bit intimating. “Told you I'd kill you.”

“No, you won't.”

* * *

“Wallace,” Sarah Jane said, knowing that she couldn't afford to be gentle now. “We need to organize a search.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Not that I'm not tempted to cut off your son's—”

“Don't,” Sarah Jane interrupted, her composure hanging on by the barest of threads. She'd gone to the school herself, but the custodians had already started on clean up and most of the doors were already locked. She drove around the building, making sure that none of the teenagers lingering in the fields were her son or Ailie, and when she'd confirmed that, she drove back toward her house with a growing sense of dread.

She felt worse now. Sick, even. She couldn't think of a time she'd been more scared for her son, and they'd had a few harrowing times in the past. She didn't work in the most innocent of careers, and sometimes her work came home with her, even when it wasn't supposed to.

Stuart hated that about her, and they were still fighting about it now.

That didn't change anything. Her son was in danger, and she had to knock some sense into everyone who thought nothing at all was wrong.

“You know they could just be—”

“Your house is empty. So is mine. They're not at the school. They're not at the hospital. I called. I drove up and down that road twice.”

Wallace grunted. “Your son is the most arse-backward kid around here, and I'm not surprised, not with you as a mother. He acts normal for once in his bloody life, and you panic. Not that you shouldn't—I'm gonna beat him senseless for my daughter's honor—”

Sarah Jane dropped a shoe on Wallace McKinney's desk and shattered his world.

* * *

Hardy now had a useless arm as well as a useless hand, but it seemed to amuse his tormentor that he had managed to do as much as he had one armed, so he'd left that one alone, fingers and all. He'd focused his efforts on other areas, many of which sported fresh bruises and dripped blood, leaving him a mess, supposed payment for the crime of killing one of them.

The silent one was watching him, Toothy having passed out again after another bottle—maybe two, it was hard for Hardy to keep track of anything other than what hurt the most right now.

“He took... the knife...” Hardy managed to say. “What... you think... gonna do?”

The quiet one shook his head, refusing to say anything, so Hardy turned away, using his good arm to pull himself back over to Ailie's side. He'd rather be by her than that one, even if she was cold and dead. Her eyes didn't manage to accuse, they just looked hollow.

He felt hollow. He should have saved her, and he hadn't. He couldn't do anything for her now except maybe hold out, but he didn't think he'd see morning. Then again, for all he knew, it was morning. He had no idea how much time had actually passed.

Then the hand came on his arm, trying to pull him back by his broken arm, and he hollered, striking out in blind desperation against the agony that washed over him fresh again. He felt the hold ease, hissing as he tried to breathe through the pain.

“Don't touch me.”

He would have thought that maybe this one couldn't speak at all until it grabbed him around the throat—nothing new there, either. “Away from her.”

Hardy clawed at the fingers on his throat. “What... she... scares you? She's... dead.”

Still, he wasn't wrong. This one was bothered by Ailie's body. He didn't know if that was guilt or something else, but he'd use it. He let go of the other man's hand and fought to hold on long enough to reach for Ailie's arm, pulling her toward him. The other man shrieked and let go of Hardy's throat.

That bought him a few minutes. Not long, but Hardy decided to make the most of them.

Ailie's body could have been protection, bu it wasn't enough. He swallowed and ignored everything as he threw himself toward Toothy. He picked up the half empty bottle, taking a quick swig of it, feeling it burn his throat. He didn't care. He needed something to counter the pain, and this was the only thing available. He drank it down as fast as he could, barely finishing it before the quiet one was on him again.

“Not that.”

Hardy would have given him the two fingered salute if he had working fingers on his other hand, but as it was, he improvised, smashing the bottle just before the man lunged for him again. Hardy swung again, this time with the broken glass as a weapon.

He thought it worked. It was hard to tell through the blood.

* * *

Sarah Jane had almost missed the shoe, even as slow as she'd gone, but the headlight had caught something just on the edge of the road, and when she stopped to examine it, she recognized it. Ailie had been wearing it when she came to get Alec, dressed up as she was in that charming thing she'd made herself with pride and a bit of shame, having had to make her own fancy dress with the cheapest fabric she could buy.

Sarah Jane wished she'd said something—she would gladly have helped or even bought her a dress. She was fond of her, and she knew how much her friendship meant to her son.

Which was why she'd almost vomited when she saw the heel lying on the side of the road, mangled.

No body, though. Not Ailie's. Not Alec's.

No sign of her son at all, and only the shoe to show Ailie had been there.

“I want a search done, Wallace. We have to find them.”

* * *

Toothy's liquor was potent stuff, whatever it was.

He hadn't woken up even through the scuffle with the quiet one, and Hardy had actually sat still long enough to feel it start working on him without any sign of the other man rousing. He knew it wouldn't last, none of it would, but he knew he had to do what he could now, or he might not be able to later. He doubted the second punishment would be less harsh than he first, and he still didn't know why he wasn't dead.

He did know that he wasn't staying here.

He pulled himself across the floor and to the stairs—he supposed he owed them a little for getting him on the right side of the room for a change—and he studied them with a wince.

Right. Up that way. Otherwise... he was dead.

As much as it had some appeal after Ailie's death and all this pain, he wasn't done yet. Toothy and the leader were still alive, and he wasn't even sure the quiet one was dead—a guy that bothered by a dead body probably passed out at the sight of his own blood, but whatever it was, Hardy was going to use it anyway.

He pushed himself up onto the first step, and with the railing, he tried to get to his feet. Pain shot through his leg that even the alcohol couldn't dull, but he bit down the outcry and forced himself on. He had to get out of here.

He fell onto the last step, unable to do another. He groaned, dragging himself on with his good arm. He leaned against the wall and looked around. Another set of stairs led up, and he figured that had to be where the leader kept disappearing to. Fine. He didn't want to go that way anyway. He eyed the door, not sure he could get it open, but he had to try.

He wished he had a bit more of Toothy's favorite, though. 

He pulled himself up again, holding back his reaction, and used the wall as support to open the door. Not locked. Then again, he didn't know how he'd managed to get this far, so he wasn't surprised they hadn't bothered.

He stumbled out onto the ground, doing his best to crawl, knowing he couldn't use one arm alone to get away, even if the other was useless and his ankle was killing him.

He started toward the gap in the trees he could see ahead of him, not sure what else to do since he couldn't orient himself with any landmarks or anything in this light, his mind clouded with pain and alcohol.

He was still crawling when something caught his other foot, and he only needed a whiff to know it was Toothy.

“You really think you can get away?” Toothy asked, sounding confused. “Blimey, but you're stubborn.”

Hardy tried to yank himself free. “Let go.”

“We're not done with you,” Toothy insisted, knocking him onto his back and leaning over him with a foul leer. “Gonna make you wish you'd never been born.”

Hardy was already there, but his hand brushed against a rock, and he almost cried with relief. He knew it wasn't much, but he didn't care. He had one shot at this, and he knew he didn't have much else left in him, but he'd at least do this one last thing. For Ailie.

And because he was damn well going down fighting.

He gripped the rock hard enough to cut into his skin before using it to hit the other man in the head. Toothy fell back, and Hardy backed away, moving as far as he could, rock still in hand, as his vision wavered, going blacker than the night itself was.

He was going to die now. He knew it.

He could almost accept that.

He closed his eyes, and he was almost out when something jostled him. He didn't have anything left to fight with, but he didn't think he smelled Toothy. The leader, maybe.

“No, no, open your eyes,” a voice urged, one he didn't think he knew. Foreign. What was with all the bloody tourists? “That's a bit better. Come on. Hold on, now. Ambulance is on its way. You just have to hold on a bit longer. Please. You can do that for me, can't you?”

Hardy figured he must be dreaming. “Ailie...”

“Just hold on. A little longer. Hold on.”


	4. Time for Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah Jane waits for her son to wake up, and things take a couple unexpected turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept telling myself this was four chapters. And I think I managed to stick to it.
> 
> Oh, there could be books of angst filled with Hardy's days after waking up, and I think may have given myself multiple subplots to explore if I get that crazy, but I did what I intended to, wrote out the night that shaped Hardy, and now hopefully I can be free of it, though he may be right about the not being free thing.

* * *

“Sarah?”

She stopped pacing, turning to look back at Stuart. From the look of him, he was tired and a bit drunk, not that it was all that unusual to see him like that. She wanted to be angry, but she didn't have it in her, not now. Not after hours of worrying and fearing the worst, after some motorist, a stranger, found her son on the side of the road, half-dead. They were lucky, since Alec was alive.

Ailie wasn't. She'd be here if she was, and she wasn't. Wallace wasn't. Sarah Jane wasn't sure they'd ever see him again, not with his heart gone with his daughter.

“Stuart,” Sarah Jane said, swallowing and wondering if this was going to become another fight.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded. “It was just a stupid dance.”

Sarah Jane shook her head. “I don't know. I just... I knew something was wrong when they didn't come back right away, but I still don't understand what happened.”

“They said... someone died.”

“Ailie,” Sarah Jane answered. No one had told her, but when Alec came here and she didn't, it was obvious. That, and she hadn't seen Wallace, either. If his daughter was hurt, he'd be here, where Sarah Jane was, waiting. He wouldn't be anywhere else, even if the men who attacked her were still out there. Wallace just wasn't that sort of man.

“Damn. She was a nice girl,” Stuart said. “Better than Alec deserved.”

“Don't start,” Sarah Jane said, giving him the only warning he was going to get. “Our son is in that operating room, fighting for his life. You do not do that here. You shouldn't be like that with him, ever—don't look at me like that, Stuart. I know he's just as bad with you, but he could still die, and I won't have you badmouthing him in the bloody hospital.”

Stuart shook his head. “I didn't—I'm sorry. You know me. Rubbish at this. Don't know how to—how did this happen? It doesn't—who would ever hurt Ailie?”

Sarah Jane didn't know. The girl had been a sweetheart, and she was going to be missed by the whole town. She was so young and bright, and now that light was gone, the life extinguished. “Something happened when they were walking home. I don't know any more than that. We probably won't until Alec is awake again.”

“They have to be investigating, don't they? Why wouldn't they—”

“Ailie is McKinney's daughter. You think he is capable of investigating anything at the moment?”

Stuart winced. “No. He's not. You could, strong as you are—not that I'm saying I want you to go. I'm not. Don't you dare. I mean, he's your son. You should be here. And you're just a reporter, not a policewoman.”

Sarah Jane sighed. Sometimes she didn't know why she married him.

“Mrs. Hardy?”

She looked over to see a surgeon standing there, dressed in scrubs, masking hanging down around his throat. She swallowed, and Stuart took her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“I'm Stuart Hardy,” he said. “How is Alec? Is he—he's not—”

“As I told your wife earlier, we needed to operate to stop the bleeding and reset several broken bones,” Dunlap said. “With as many injuries as your son sustained, there was a strong possibility of internal bleeding.”

Stuart just stared at him. Sarah Jane forced herself to speak. “And that head wound—was it a skull fracture like you were afraid it was?”

“That's why I came to see you. We did have to relieve the swelling around his brain, and there is a chance he sustained brain damage,” Dunlap answered. “However, at this time, we're optimistic about his chances of recovery.”

“You're bloody joking,” Stuart said, and Sarah Jane frowned at him. “You couldn't have started with that, you wanker?”

“You had to know that your son is not out of the woods yet,” the surgeon said, defensive. “He has a long road ahead of him no matter what, but we're going to have to continue to monitor the swelling overnight. Hopefully, he won't need any more surgeries.”

Stuart frowned. “What does—”

“Can we see him now?” Sarah Jane interrupted, wanting to be where her son was if at all possible. She didn't want him to be alone, and she needed to see his recovery for herself. “Please.”

* * *

Sarah Jane read from one of her own novels, occasionally embarrassed by her word choice and the typos she always seemed to find, but Alec wasn't awake to mock her about them. She was well aware that her husband would not approve of her choice, especially since she was reading it aloud to their still comatose son, but she did not care. She wanted something to keep herself busy, and while some of her books should never be revisited, others had a bit of charm and even nostalgia for her.

She rather wished he would say something, anything, tell her what absolute rubbish her book was—the science if nothing else, but he remained silent, eyes stubbornly kept closed.

She thought he would have woken early to fight with his father when Stuart was actually here, but he hadn't. And while she could almost pretend he was doing it as a defiance of Stuart's edict that Alec should just come out of it already, she knew that wasn't true.

She reached over and combed back what was left of his hair. “You'd hate what they did to it, even if it saved your life. It'll scar, and I'm sorry. I don't—a part of me is worried it wasn't even necessary and that's why you're in this coma. I wish Ailie were here. She could wake you. Or maybe our favorite mutt, what do you think?”

She sighed, getting no answer again, and returned to her book. She picked it up, not sure where he bookmark had gone, and she couldn't remember where she'd been. Something about the Zygons, was it? Or was that the last book? She couldn't keep her own novels straight, not right now. 

She had just turned the page onto where she thought she must have been when she heard the moan. The book fell from her hands when she looked over to see his eyes open. “Alec?”

He groaned, trying to move, and she reached over to stop him.

“Sweetheart, don't,” she said, taking his hand. “You'll pull your stitches and hurt yourself all over again. Look at me, please. That's it. You know who I am?”

He gave her that look that said she was being stupid, and she almost laughed. His voice came out in a low, unrecognizable croak. “Aye.”

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, moving her hand to his cheek. “You had us so worried.”

“Ailie?”

“They buried her two days ago,” Sarah Jane said, knowing better than to lie to him, even if he had just come out of a coma. He'd never forgive her if she tried to give him false hope. “I'm sorry.”

He tried to sit up again, and this time the equipment had a fit, screaming in protest, and Sarah Jane reached over to stop him from pulling any of the other monitors off. The nurses were going to think he was dead or something at this rate.

“You shouldn't move, and you'll regret trying to walk on that ankle. Just stay still a minute, let me get your doctor.”

“No. Out of here. Now.”

“Alec—”

“No,” he said, and his eyes met hers, the plea in them breaking her heart. She didn't want to force him to stay, not even knowing he wasn't ready to go, but she knew her son, her proud little boy who would never want anyone to see him grieve, not even her.

“They had to operate on your brain,” she told him, watching him frown at her. “You can't go until they tell me you'll be all right. Let's just get your doctor, shall we?”

He said nothing, but she took it as a yes.

* * *

“You know, if you were planning on running away, this is a poor choice of destination,” Sarah Jane said as she walked up to her son. “Too predictable.”

He lifted his head from the stone, eyes lifeless and so dark, making her wish she could go back in time and bring Ailie back to life, to spare them both that night and all of this pain. She swore he hadn't said more than twenty words in the past week, mostly using a glare to convey his thoughts on anything. She didn't think he would ever tell anyone what had happened to him, not completely, which made his silence after getting an answer to his question about how many bodies were found that much more worrisome.

“She wouldn't want you to do this,” Sarah Jane said, kneeling down beside him. “Ailie loved your smile. She said her mission in life was getting you to do it.”

Alec shook his head. “Don't.”

“What do you expect me to do? Let you wallow in your guilt?” Sarah Jane demanded. “You're alive. That is not a crime. I will never stop being grateful for whatever miracle it was that allows you to be here, at my side.”

“Miracle?” Alec snorted. “What bloody miracle? Oh, aye, that's a fine word for it. Bloody. You think it's right, what I did? It's not like it saved her. She was already dead.”

Sarah Jane nodded. She'd heard that from the pathologist. Ailie had been dead long enough for rigor to set in before they found Alec, which made his survival that much more impressive—and heartbreaking. “I keep thinking I waited too long.”

He frowned. “You? What are you talking about?”

“I knew something was wrong when you weren't back from that dance within the first hour,” she admitted. “Maybe if I'd started looking for you then instead of trying to tell myself you were just... being teenagers, she'd still be alive.”

Alec winced. “No.”

“If it's not my fault, why is it yours?”

“She was my friend. I couldn't... I couldn't protect her. They took her, and I couldn't stop them. They... they did... things to her. And all I could do was watch. She screamed for help, for _my_ help, but she died and I did nothing.”

“Why not?”

He looked at her. “What?”

“I know you. I know how you felt about Ailie. I know you would have done anything to help her, so why couldn't you? Were you tied up?” Sarah Jane asked, picking up his good hand and touching the mark near his wrist. “You were. And you are not Superman. You couldn't get to her, so stop telling yourself you could.”

He shook his head. “I should have. I should have done... something. _Anything.”_

“Sometimes there isn't anything we can do,” Sarah Jane told him, reminded of how even the smartest of men and greatest of heroes couldn't save everyone. “It isn't fair or right or anything of the sort, but you've known that for a long time now already. I can't tell you what you don't already know.”

“Don't bother telling me I have to forgive myself.”

“I hope you will, someday, but I don't see it happening any time soon,” she admitted. “Don't punish yourself forever. Those men are the ones who deserved that, not you.”

“And who the bloody hell will make that happen? Wallace? Oh, wait, we just put him in next to her. So that's another dead, and for what? For some sick bastard's amusement?”

Sarah Jane winced. “Alec—”

“He'll get away with it. He killed her, and I killed them, but he's still out there. Free. Freer than me, that's for damned sure.”

She didn't doubt that. She heard his screams at night, even if he denied them when he was awake. And even now, some of Alec's scars were visible. His best friend was dead. He was never going to be the same.

“It doesn't have to be like that.”

“No, it doesn't,” Alec agreed, his voice distant and cold, harsher than she'd heard it before. “Don't they say you become the monster you're trying to fight? I'm already there, so I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?”

Sarah Jane stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“I'm going to hunt the monsters. All of them. Not the ones in your books. The human ones. I won't let another one get away.”

“Alec—”

“Bet I can get the degrees I'd need in half the time if I started now,” he said, and while a part of her was relieved, the rest of her was not. Not at all. She should be proud—a policeman was a noble calling, and not many people were suited to it, but her son—he could have been so many other wonderful things. She wanted that for him, not a life that would pull him further into the darkness.

“How the hell did it get to this?” Alec asked, but Sarah Jane wasn't sure that was meant for her. His fingers were on Ailie's name, and his voice was far away. “It was just a stupid dance.”

* * *

_“He wouldn't want me telling you how he is,” Sarah Jane said as set the flowers against the headstone. “Not only does he not believe in talking to the dead, he also doesn't like anyone knowing when he's struggling. Though you knew that better than just about anyone, didn't you?”_

_“Do you expect her to answer?” the Doctor asked, frowning. “I've never really understood this particular human ritual.”_

_Sarah Jane tensed, rising and turning back to face him. “I suppose it doesn't make much sense. Even I know she's not actually there, but it's a comfort to me sometimes. And other times, I just don't know how to stay quiet. It's unnatural without some conversation. Too still. A bit creepy.”_

_The Doctor nodded. “I can see that. At least this place doesn't have statues. That would be worse. Weeping angels...”_

_“Why are you here?” Sarah Jane asked, frowning. “Have I... died? Did you come here to see me when I was alone and still alive?”_

_He shook his head. “No, I came to—well, I suppose you're a bit right. I did come to say goodbye, just not the way you think. It's not you that's going to leave. It's me—”_

_“You're regenerating?”_

_“No, but I have to forget to preserve the timelines,” the Doctor answered, seeing the relief on her features. “Oh, you like this face, do you?”_

_Sarah Jane laughed. “Is that a real question? You share that face with the man I love most in the world—my son. I don't want you to lose it for a good, long time. Oh. That's it. I never understood before, never even thought that it was possible, but—that motorist, the one who called for the ambulance, the one that got it to Alec in time... that was you, wasn't it?”_

_The Doctor nodded. “Lesson I learned from Rose, actually. She didn't want her father to die alone. And I couldn't leave my son out there alone. I made the call, stayed with him until they came. Cheated a bit, but I'm not sure he would have lived if I hadn't, and he had to live.”_

_Sarah Jane wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you. Again.”_

_He nodded, letting her keep hold of him for as long as she liked. He didn't mind. He would miss times like this with her, especially since he would have to lock all of this way and avoid her so as to keep from disrupting the timelines._

_“And thank you,” the Doctor said, turning to the headstone. He knew she wasn't there, but he still traced his fingers over the name with a bit of reverence._ Ailie Daisy McKinney. _“For all you were to my son and all you inspired.”_

_“She would have liked you.”_

_The Doctor grinned. “I know she did.”_


End file.
